


swear not by the moon

by soongandroid



Series: See you soon, my dear (forget about goodbye) [1]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Lots of dialogue, M/M, No Spoilers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 22:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12993891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soongandroid/pseuds/soongandroid
Summary: "For parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good-night til it be morrow."Two young princes meet by chance in the dead night of the new moon--and keep meeting.





	swear not by the moon

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic (like, ever) and I wrote it in one night in a fuming rage after watching episode 9. There aren't any spoilers, but that's the emotional background. I might write more one-shots based on this fic soon, because apparently Panto and Silas's beautiful fairytale love has given me the drive to write creatively for the first time in 5 years.
> 
> Title and summary quote taken from Romeo and Juliet, because I had to.

\---  
FALL

Panto Trost was, to put it humbly, a well-liked prince. He was a cheerful child--and now at twenty had grown up a kind and optimistic man. He took after his elder sister in graceful swordsmanship; he was attentive to his studies and generous in his interactions with the people of the kingdom. His father and sister were good to him, and the productivity of their farmlands meant he never went hungry, as his people were always fed. By all means a young man like Panto should want for nothing.

This is what Panto tells himself twice a month, at every new moon, when he sneaks down the servants ladders and climbs over the northern gate to bolt into the forest north of Trost lands in the cloak of night.

Tonight, two hours past dusk in the early autumn, Panto walks his well-trod path through the withering trees with his sword at his hip and his hood drawn up. It’s perhaps the thirtieth time he’s slipped out to seek freedom and solitude in the embrace of this neutral swath of land, so the guilt of disobedience has subsided to a low buzz and the excitement of rebellion has ebbed to the comfort of a breath of fresh air. The further he walks, the slower his paces become, until he is meandering without rush to his destination.

As Panto breaches the clearing to the pond that has become his regular resting spot these nights, he instinctively registers something is different before he realizes why. The water remains clear and gently rippling, the grass waves with the wind and the insects chirp away underneath, same as always. Panto’s eyes snap to the disturbance in the scene as they scan the treeline. At the bank of the pond, crouched facing away, is a shadowed figure. 

Heart pounding, Panto draws his sword and races forward, abandoning stealth. 

“Who goes there! Stand and announce yourself.”

The figure--a young man his own age, now that Panto can see him--jolts to his feet. The stranger’s face flashes panic before he screws up his mouth and pulls a dagger from his own belt.

“No, you first! Tell me who you are!” His grip on the dagger hilt is white-knuckled but his eyes are wide, his hands are shaking, and his stance is too narrow. His hair is dark and his clothes are not of Trost make, so it’s unlikely this is some agent of his Father’s come to catch Panto red-handed. Still, he could be a foreign spy of some kind. Best not reveal his identity.

“I don’t want to fight you, but I warn you I will if I must,” Panto says evenly. The other man’s eyes dart from his sword to his hair, tracing his face, and widen.

“Are you a Trost?” he says. Well. So much for that. Perhaps charisma will work better.

“My name is Panto, friend.” Panto smiles encouragingly and lowers his sword a few inches, taking a step toward the stranger. “If you’ll put away your dagger, perhaps we can talk and see if this pond is big enough for the both of us.”

Panto can see the stranger’s resolve waver, and after a few moments he nods and places his dagger back in its sheath. Panto holsters his sword, and closes the distance between them with his hand extended.

“It’s only fair you tell me your name, now that you know mine.”

“It’s...Sssaaaah..” He shuts his eyes and sighs. “Silas. Um. Silas Dengdamor.” Silas takes Panto’s gloved hand tentatively and shakes twice. Before Panto can reply, Silas fidgets and opens his mouth again.

“I’m not your enemy, I swear. Or, well, perhaps I am, technically, by name--but I wish you and yours no harm. I’m not here to spy on you. I wasn’t exactly expecting to find company at this time of night, I only--” he stammers, then seems to draw himself straighter. “Despite my station, I only wished to find some quiet place to think.”

“Well, here we both are, and it appears we are equally truant. Perhaps a truce, then?” Panto says. He gestures to the pond and takes a seat cross legged on a flattened patch of grass. “If you agree, of course.”

Silas furrows his eyebrows, but follows Panto to the ground. 

“A truce?”

“We’ll abandon our titles, for the time being. This land bears no claim, and neither shall we.” Panto replies.

“No claim,” Silas smiles slowly, looking up to meet his eyes, and Panto’s stomach flips. “Alright, I agree.”

\---  
WINTER

“...Of course Farson blamed the whole incident on me, and I was confined to the castle for a week. The trials of a first born,” Silas grins and tosses a handful of pebbles into the pond, watching them sink in the shallow water. “Wygar and I never did find out what happened to those tapestries. Though I have my theories, you know, a dozen tapestries don’t just stop existing.”

Panto stretches his legs out in front of him, toward the small fire they’ve built between them to stave off the bite of winter’s air. 

“I can only hope that I’ve never been such a mischievous pest to my elder sister...but perhaps such a hope would be in vain,” Panto says. His wry, handsome smile is illuminated by the firelight, and Silas has to rip his eyes away lest he stare too long.

Silas knows it’s bordering on dangerously foolish to be venturing out alone in the dead of night in winter, let alone to meet with the prince of his families’ rival kingdom. There’s just something about Panto that keeps drawing him in, and he can’t stop himself from coming back every fortnight since they met to satisfy his curiosity. He’s never fallen so easily into companionship with somebody, and every time he talks the night away with Panto here at their pond he can feel his worldview shifting, just a little, just enough to keep him hooked.

It’s wrong. It’s practically treason.  
It feels like freedom.

“What of your sister, then? Her name is Litzibitz, isn’t it?” Silas asks.

“Yes. Bitsy, for short, and if you’re feeling particularly daring that day,” Panto says. “I admire her tenacity and her talent for governance. Gods know what she would think of my midnight excursions. She trained me with the sword when I was younger, you know, until I surpassed her. Not that she would admit that, of course. Litzibitz and her attending knights would have my head sooner, and I don’t like my chances against all four of them.” Panto huffs a laugh.

“I’m sure your sister could take me out blindfolded with training scissors, then, if need be” Silas says. He’s only mostly joking. 

“I wouldn’t let her.” Panto says, and he isn’t smiling anymore.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t let her. I know you don’t like to fight, Silas. Of course I would defend you.” Panto’s eyes are too intense, and Silas looks away, breath caught in his chest.

“You--Panto, I--I know your loyalty must lie with your family, in the end. You need not...say such things.” Silas says.

“Would I say it if I did not mean it? I am loyal to my family, it’s true, but I would not let them harm a friend without reason. You need not bear the burden of this violent quarrel between our families when you’ve done nothing but seek out peace. Nor do I.” Panto clasps his arm and catches his eye again. “Know this. I would defend you.”

Silas exhales, searching for words in the light that reflects across Panto’s blue eyes.

“I only hope you will never need to make that choice. Perhaps someday, our families will see they are not so different from each other.”

\---  
SPRING

“There’s something different about you. Hm, I just can’t place it!”

“Panto.”

“Have you cut your hair, perhaps? Or, is it a late growth spurt? ---no. You’re as short as ever.”

“Panto!”

“You haven’t been plucking your ear hairs, have you?”

“Panto! Just tell me what you think, please?” Silas runs his hands through his hair, shifting his feet, and Panto laughs.

“I think it well suits you. You’re very handsome with a beard. I forsee maiden suitors banging down the castle doors, trying to get a good look at you and win your hand. Or should I say, your face.” Panto grins and raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t mock me, Panto,” Silas groans.

“I don’t mean to mock, dear friend. I should be jealous, I’ve never been able to grow a full beard.” Panto rubs his bare chin to demonstrate, and nudges Silas before sitting down in his usual spot at the grassy bank of the pond. 

“You think it’s alright, then? Really?” Silas asks.

“Of course, Silas, don’t be silly. I’d throw my lot in with you, if I thought I had a chance.” Panto says. 

Silas blinks, and Panto freezes. Despite the warming evening air of spring, ice creeps into Panto’s veins. There was too much sincerity in his words, like there always is, and words like those are dangerous for men like Panto and Silas. The ice starts to feel like panic. That’s wrong; Trosts are never afraid. 

“If you--what? Panto--”

“That is, ah, if I were--”

“Are you saying--”

“Of course I’m not--”

“Panto, listen. Please.” 

Panto listens. He presses his lips and nods, but can’t quite bring himself to meet Silas’s eyes. He hears Silas walk forward, then kneel down by Panto to bring them face to face. 

“Did you mean it, Panto?” Silas’s quiet voice is like a quivering blade, and it cuts to his bones. When Panto looks up at him, he sees his own fear in the tense lines of Silas’s frame. But in his dark, kind eyes, Panto sees hope. He takes a chance.

Panto leans forward, moving slowly in the dark so Silas knows what he means to do. He reaches out a hand, gently cupping the back of his head to bring it up to his. He pushes his fingertips through soft, dark hair, and Silas’s eyes flutter shut. When his lips part in an inhale, Panto covers them with his own, closing his eyes and carefully holding Silas’s face in his other hand. Silas’s hands come to rest on his waist, and they feel like they’re burning imprints into his skin through the cloth of his tunic. As Silas kisses him, slowly and fervently, Panto feels something settle in his soul--a missing piece he didn’t know was floating free. 

“I did. More than anything,” Panto pants as they split for air, before Silas laughs and tugs him back in.

 

\---  
SUMMER

Their escapes to the pond have become the highlight of Silas’s hectic life as prince, where he can cast off the burden of the court and his Mother’s iron fist. He’s discovered, in these last months, that Panto has made him happier than anything--even as whispers of war and contention rumble. More and more, being with Panto feels like coming home.

Now that the humid warmth of summer has settled in, they’ve abandoned building fires and rely on only the heavens for light. Without the moon obscuring the sky, the stars shine like rivers of lanterns in the distance against the dark. 

Tonight Silas feels like a bright cloud is living in his chest, like he’d be in danger of floating away if the weight of Panto’s head wasn’t keeping him down on the earth. Panto, using Silas as a pillow as they lay stretched out on the grass, points up to trace clusters of stars and tell stories of warriors fighting terrible monsters, witches cursing people who slight them, and vegetables growing especially large or in strange shapes. Silas knows he’s making it all up, but it’s entertaining nonetheless. 

“...las? Darling? Silas? Are you listening?” Panto sounds more amused than annoyed, but Silas can see him pouting.

“Sorry, my dear. I was just thinking. Please, tell me more about the...carrot woman?”

“Parsnip.” Panto waves a hand lazily from where it rests on his stomach. “What are you thinking about, that’s so much more captivating than my incredibly culturally important tales?”

“Only you, Panto.” Silas says. Panto rolls over onto his stomach to lie next to him, propping his chin up in his hands.

“Why would you need to think about me when I am here with you?”

“It’s just…” Silas pauses, twirls a stem of grass in his fingers. “Do you ever wish we could see each other in the daylight? Panto, every day between the new moons feels like a fortnight to me now! When we part, my heart breaks with the day. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it, or what I would do if one night you never came.” As Silas runs out of steam, Panto rests a hand on his chest, briefly pressing their foreheads.

“I am sorry to cause you such anguish, Silas. I admit, I feel the same. I only try to treasure every moment we have.” Panto says. Silas sighs and strokes his lover’s hair.

“If I were a braver man,” Silas says, “I would kiss you senseless on the castle steps in broad daylight for all the court and the Queen to see.”

“Silas, you are the bravest man I know.” Panto replies, and kisses him softly when he scoffs. “And you know I would do anything for you. Even something so foolhardy, though I know you to be wiser than that.”

“You are too kind to me,” Silas laughs. Panto’s face hovers over him, so beautiful against a backdrop of stars. The cloud fills Silas’s lungs again, and it feels like joy, and like floating but also like falling. The word “love” sits on the back of his tongue, and it’s as sweet and delicate as pink cotton candy in the summer air. 

When Panto kisses him, arms on either side of his head, he feels safer than he ever has in the guarded walls of his Mother’s castle. Silas pulls him down against his chest, letting Panto’s solid weight ground him. He tangles his hands in the linen against Panto’s back, almost desperately, as if they could get any closer. Familiar hands thread into his hair, splayed against the grass, and Silas thinks that he would give anything to keep this man forever. 

Panto breaks free to look him in the eyes, hands still cradling his head. 

“Someday, Silas, mark my words. We’ll have our happily ever after.”

Silas smiles. “Someday.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, thanks! Kudos and comments appreciated, even flame(z).


End file.
